So Come Back, I Am Waiting
by ilurandir
Summary: Chris Dervish considers his relationship with Paul... and his relationship with skag, and struggles to come to terms with which is more important.


_A black sheep boy revolves over canyons and waterfalls_

_A black sheep boy dissolves in syringe or in shower stalls_

_Says "There's plenty of time to make you mine tonight,"_

_Says "There's plenty of time to make you mine."_

_Says "There's plenty of ways to know you're not dying, all right?_

"_Hell, there's plenty of light still left in your eyes… in your eyes."_

Chris lay on his back on his bed. Paul's bed. Their bed. He watched the ceiling spin without spinning and knew, somewhere in the fog of his mind to keep his left arm still, because he hadn't pulled the needle out. He'd gone under before he could pull the needle out.

He was so cold. He wanted nothing more than to get under the sheets, nothing more than to have Paul curled up against his back, those arms around him, holding onto him like he would never let go.

He wondered, vaguely, if he was dying. He found he didn't really care all that much. He was so cold. The ceiling was spinning. There was still a needle in his arm. He couldn't feel his fingers at all anymore.

_A black sheep boy grows horns_

_Breathing smoke through his microphone_

_The airwaves stretch and they groan_

_Bleeding, birthing his black diapason_

_Says "There's plenty of things to wear when you come to me,_

_ "Every colour of sleeve to be rolled_

_ "Millions of rolling eyes that still cling to me_

"_Every language of king is concerned."_

The violent episodes, they were getting worse, but lying here, the early, early morning sunlight creeping in through the gap in the curtains. Singing, for a while, had made him feel better. It was something he had worked on so hard, and then finally succeeded. In the beginning it had been so frustrating. It had been painful and Nick had been awful, but Paul had always been there. Paul had been there to teach him the basics of reading music and how to breathe when he sang.

Now when he sang it was in smoky pubs and all he could see was the roiling mass that was the crowd, their hands all reaching for him, wanting him, wanting a piece of him, just like everyone.

For a long time, the heroin was the only thing he'd been able to control. And it had controlled him. In the beginning it had made him feel calm and blissfull. More at peace than he had ever felt in his whole life. Even lying in Paul's arms – or… no?

He couldn't remember what that felt like sometimes. And now, lying along on their bed. Paul's bed… it was like just the hint of a memory. Déjà vu almost. The feeling of Paul wrapping around him.

For a while he had controlled the heroin, but like everything, it started to consume him, and he started to lose control. Again.

_So why did you bawl from the spell of some old holy song_

_That some liar laughed as he composed?_

_Some liar I loved to control._

_A black sheep boy dissolves in hot cream, in sweet moans_

_In each dead bed and empty home_

_In each seething bacterium_

_Killing softly and serial_

_He lifts his head, handsome, horned, magisterial_

_He's the smell of the moonlight wisteria_

_He's the thrill of the abecedarian_

_See the muddy hoof prints where he carried you_

It was a like a break in his mind. He could be here, laughing with Paul, kissing, sex. He could be here, fully present, fully okay… but then… now it was like they fucked because they couldn't find anything else to hold them together. And Chris could feel the heroin running through his veins more than Paul's tongue in his mouth, more than his hands holding Paul's legs apart, more than being inside him. And it wasn't enough. The heroin, it wasn't enough.

_And there's plenty of ways to claim his crimes tonight_

_And there's plenty of things to do on his dime_

_And there's plenty of ways to wear his hide tonight_

_You've got yours, I've got mine_

_You've got yours, I've got mine_

In the end, maybe it was that that broke them apart. And part of Chris hated Paul for being able to come off of the drug so easily. And he knew it wasn't easy. He heard him retching in the bathroom in the early hours of the morning, but he was the one shaking and convulsing on his bed, soaked in sweat and wanting to scream from the pain.

They were different people, and somehow, at first, he hadn't understood just how different. They were different chemically. Biologically. And that made him feel so distant from him, and somehow distant from everyone else as well. Like there were walls, clouds of grey and they were closing in, suffocating him, and no one could see it.

Paul should see it. And damn it, why couldn't he fucking see it?

_So why did you flee, don't you know you can't leave his control?_

_Only call all his wild works your own._

_So come back and we'll take them on_

_So come back to your life on the lam_

_So come back to your old black sheep man_

_Says "I am waiting on hoof and on hand,_

_ "I am waiting all hated and damned _

_ "I am waiting I snort and I stamp_

_ "I'm waiting, you know that I am_

_ "Calmly waiting to make you my lamb."_

"I'll quit for you," Chris whispered into Paul's ear, standing together in the falling snow at the foot of the front steps of Humbleden, his feet and hands frozen from the cold, his shoulders more painful than usual with tension. His teeth chattered as he inhaled and pulled back to meet Paul's eyes.

"I'll quit for you," he said again, and both of them were looking right at each other, their eyes searching, searching for something neither one was sure how to find.

But he meant it. Oh God, he meant it.


End file.
